


withering violets

by Anonymous



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, F/F, Female Hermann Gottlieb, Female Newton Geiszler, Female Newton Geiszler/Female Hermann Gottlieb, Fluff and Angst, Hermann is actually disguised as a man until like the ending, Historical Inaccuracy, I guess???, Implied Murder, Major Illness, Pining, Purple Prose, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, and decided to write in purple prose in a language that is not my first, and so i went 'oh let's project on fem newt and give her consumption', except it's actually depression but yk, i started writing it because i had the flu and i was yearning, listen i don't even know what this is i'm just very overdramatic gay and lonely okay, listen i don't even know when this is set exactly okay, overdramatic, well more like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21972469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "Oh, what a wonder, that the same heart that so many times I have wished would cease beating at all, could be so shaken and restless at her touch; could scream so loud and demand my attention, and my apologies, for all the neglect and unfairness I subjected it to. I allowed this heart of mine the best apology: I dived in, and disclosed my lips to her kiss."Or: Newt has depression mistaken as "consumption fever", Hermann becomes her preceptor by disguising herself as a man. Also, everything is very overdramatic.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10
Collections: Anonymous





	withering violets

Dear diary,

  
The illiness doesn’t seem to have any intention of receeding. I am chained by this frail mortal vessel to a bed that feels, to me, as a shroud; my soul yearns for the fresh air of the fields, and the light scent of jasmine that reaches me from my window, and my mind wanders to the days of my innocence, when my legs were not frail yet, and could carry me to the peak of the hills, where, with my cheeks red and my breath short, I would lay in the grass and admire the shallow surface of the sky.

  
Now, the only spectacle allowed to my sore eyes is that of the ceiling; and I have memorised with great detail every edge and every crack; cracks that torment me, at night, when the darkness sets, and shadows seem to creep in; sometimes, in the most morbid depths of my wretched soul, I wish to see the ceiling crumble; to feel the cement fall over me, burying me alive or setting me free; for even that former, most pessimistic possibility wouldn’t be so distant from what I am forced to suffer through now.  
I am so terribly ill that my poor uncle, his soul be blessed (though I doubt that things such as blessings exist; else, God would have sent me one by now. Uncle says that I shouldn’t express my distaste for God; he calls me blasphemous; but, if God exists, then he deserves the depths of my rage fully, as he never dared answering my pleads, though I have committed no sin but that of involuntary thought; and, my soul be damned to a hell as painful as this earth of sorrows is, if I had to choose between the company of God and that of ladies, I would indeed not make the right choice; I may be a demon, and the cause of my own illness; I may be a sinner, but God, I am sure, possesses not lips as soft as the ones I’ve wished to kiss, and hands as gentle as those I have touched.) has decided to choose a preceptor for me; and, quite obviously, who was the last to be informed, if not me?

  
This gentleman will arrive tomorrow, and, before setting eyes on that insipid, academic face of his, I already know I do not like him; for he reminds me of how ill I am, and how I cannot even get out of bed for long enough to withstand a lesson; and, as much as I enjoy the practice of learning, I wonder what use a culture will be of, when, in less than a decade, my body will be finally rotting in the depths of a grave, my flesh a meal for worms, my coscience lost in the wind, dissolved to particles. But oh, how it hurts my poor uncle to hear this! His eyes drown in tears, and I can almost hear the sound of his heart shattering; and I am bad, I am so very bad, for screaming, and crying, and kicking; and I know that, were he not such an enlightened man, I would be treated for this hysteric disease that consumes me. Some days, I fear that such a possibility would be the best for me; and I crave it, oh, I crave that sweet release so much. I have no reason to keep inhabiting this unworthy prison; and I doubt that a higher level of education will give me one.

Dear diary,

  
Dr. Gottlieb is, described with words that are most certainly not mine, a most distinguished gentleman. I suppose it’s his notable height charming the eyes who encounter him; or maybe the sharp cut of his jawline; or, even, the unremarkable shade of brown of his eyes.

  
For myself, I can say that I do not find him attractive in the slightest; but my neighbours have been waxing poetic about him, and expressing their envy at the idea of how much time alone I am destined to spend with him; and, even, in some cases, though most likely guided by envy, their disapproval towards the fact that a young, unmarried lady such as myself would be left unattended in the company of a bachelor.

  
As for his lessons, I barely had a taste; but I didn’t like that, either. He elected that we begin from Maths, and, heaven be burned! He is the most strict teacher I have had the displeasure of meeting. He never insulted me, nor did he raise his voice; but his cold disappointment reached me without the need of using words.

  
I had one of my crisis, after which he needed to be removed from my sight; and oh, how much I despise myself for appearing so weak! It was a continuous embarrassment; I laid in bed, in a barely decent nightgown, completely dishelleved, holding the pen between shaky, hesitatnt fingers, and, as his sharp figure judged me like an hovering vulture from a chair at my side, I attempted to draw numbers and figures, as my sight became more and more blurry.

Uncle says we are going to try again tomorrow; I know that Dr.Gottlieb has been paid in advance, and that he comes from afar, and so I must withstand at least this; but I hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it! And I hate my own childish behaviour; how is it possible that, in a life where I do nothing but lay in my bed commiserating and being taken care of, I still manage to not be able to accept the only responsibility that is placed upon me? I am a wretch.

  
Dear diary,

  
The lessons keep being terrible, but I am somehow able to grit my teeth and restrain myself as the hours pass; though, when Dr.Gottlieb finally leaves, I am overwhelmed by what I have repressed for so long, and the tidal wave of yet another crisis hits me; I am worsening, day by day; I cannot stomach anything, and even water is a struggle; the doctors still don’t know what is gripping me so strongly. Every time, they inject me with morphine, and my sorrows fade away in an agitated slumber, that leaves me feeling drained and empty the next day. I am whithering away, to the point that uncle went as far as sending a message out to my father. I know what they fear, and, in the deepest rooms of my heart, I long for it; truth is, I won’t make it through the winter. Maybe this is simply best for everyone, as my family will be surely relieved at the loss of the burden I have become; my father’s wife is bearing another child, and once every trace of his fatal mistake, of his hysterical bastard, is wiped out from this heart, they will finally be free to live happily.

  
Father held me tight, and mumbled words of worry; and I have not cried, though it was the thing I wanted the most; I have smiled for him, and told him not to pain himself too much with the though of my well-being. He left the room, because, I believe, he didn’t want me to see him weep.

  
Dear diary,

  
Today, Dr.Gottlieb seemed extremely different.

  
He caught me by surprise; I was home alone, as my uncle is absent for one of his business trips; and I hadn’t checked the time, because I was absorbed in one of my favourite readings.

  
He apologised for the involuntary ambush, and for witnessing me in such a state; then, after leaving the room in a full display of embarrassment, he waited for me to put my nightgown on. The situation firghtened me a bit; I found myself alone with a stranger man, my clavicles exposed, my body certainly too weak to struggle against any kind of attack; but he showed himself to be extremely respectful, and, as soon as I gave him permission to enter my room again, he inquired about the book I was reading.  
Apparently, he, too, has a passion for literature; maybe it was naïve of me, but I showed him my most prized and forbidden texts; he stared in awe, his features turning from his usual, perenneal displeasure, to a soft shade of admiration.

  
Then, he chuckled slightly; and, a bit sadistically, suggested that, since I enjoy literature so much, that should be the starting point for my studies. He had me analyse the grammar, sintax and lexicon of a few extracts from his favourite pieces in my library; or, well, he didn’t say that those were his favourites, but I could easily tell it from the way he greedly searched for them, flipping the pages and widening his eyes slightly when he finally found them. Then, he had me translate them to German, French, and Italian; he was as harsh as usual with me, but I enjoyed it slightly more. He promised to bring me some fragments of Sappho, and Catullus, in their original language, as soon as he’s able to find them; because, apparently, that damned man is an expert on ancient languages, too!

  
Dear diary,

  
Dr.Gottlieb and I have been able to focus on mathematics slightly more than the last times; I still stumble and suffer through those lessons, but I have started despising him less, and that’s why.

  
I cannot contain my excitement as my pen traces these words, and I almost cannot believe them after living them myself, but- for the first time in years, I have been outside.

  
My preceptor, that I am beginning to regard with the utmost affection, arrived to our lesson, perfectly timed as usual, with his face posed in a grimace that, I soon discovered after, was an attempt at disguising a smirk.

  
The previous day, he had announced to me that we would be focusing on natural sciences: conflicting feelings had risen in my heart when he had mentioned it, for natural sciences has always interested me greatly, but I was certain that the mere theoric notion would have been bittersweet: I narrated to him how pleased I was when I could pursue such an interest of mine directly, observing nature in all its shapes and forms in first person, the marvels of such a beautiful kingdom sparkling curiosity in my soul; he seemed thoughtful at the mention, and observed me carefully as I described the wonders I had seen in the fields, in the woods, besides the lake; and, with the same pensive attitude, he had said that he hoped our lesson not to be disappointing. Oh, my poor doctor, how reflective he seemed! How desperate at the thought of not catching my interest! He either must be an incredible actor, the finest in putting up an appareance of dismay while holding a surprise, or he must have spent the night awake, attemtping to plot something appropriate.

  
Regardless, when he arrived today, he looked like he could barely hold his enthusiasm back; and, with the shakiest voice, he announced that he desired to lead me outside; he apologised for not being able to take me to my most beloved woods, but he wished that our garden would have been enough to catch my interest after such a long time inside.  
I marvelled at him; how could such a thing be possible? All of the doctors that had visited me had agreed that my health was far too frail to allow me such a thing! But he shook his head, his lips curved in disgust, and expressed his disapproval for said doctors with words that I shall not repeat; though, at hearing them, I couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

  
As secretive as lovers, we sneaked out; not that there was anyone in the house to sneak away from. Oh, how terribly I blush at the though of all of our moments of total isolation, and the inappropriate actions one could indulge in during said moments! And how I enjoy secretly indulging on such a thought! It is true; I may have fallen for his charm, that I was so used to criticising. He is indeed a remarkable gentleman; and I do tend to easily admire those around me, whether they are men or women. I must admit it; if he ceased to behave in the only way he has seemed to know until now –that is, like an absolute gentleman- I would indeed not mind. My only restrain is the idea that I might soon die; and, while, in selfishness, this certainity merely serves as a motive to indulge, despite what social norms require me not to do, I fear that I may scar his soul; because I believe that such a man, who appears to be so cold, and sharp, and hardened, but hides a most gentle spirit, would not allow himself to consort with me in a more intimate way, unless he was guided by the purest feelings; and if he were, his sorrow for my death would be incredible! His gentle lips do not deserve to kiss a hand that will be cold and rigid by the end of this season.

  
Oh, forgive me for these forbidden thoughts, that I do not repress hard enough, and prefer to keep as my companions during the coldest, sleepless nights; and that interrupt the flow of my narration! I shall continue.

  
I leaned against Dr.Gottlieb’s arm for support, and he led me through the stairs and the passages; and, though he felt strong and stable, I apologised for adding yet another strain to that of his injuried leg. He replied that I was no burden to him, as my weight was minimal, and my essence so light that he would have forgotten about any kind of physical sufference in my company. How can I restrain myself, when he says such words to me? To me, never kissed, never loved, never wanted; barely a woman, barely a human being at all, a ghostly presence constrained to a mattress, unable to bask in the pleasures of life! Oh, he is very sweet indeed, but I know that his tender words come from pity.

  
He opened the door for me; and for a second, I forgot all about my illness, all about my pain!

  
Oh, how I wish that paper could convey the sheer glee bursting inside of me!

  
The first thing I saw was the sun; and then, the sky, glittering in all its insolence; the clouds chasing each other on that mantle of blue, and, underneath, the grass; never had it been so green, never had the bees appeared so busy, and the scent of flowers so intense!

  
I was overwhelmed, completely and fatally; my eyes watered and my head felt light from the emotion, to the point that I experienced a brief loss of balance; and my demons, crawling back from the corner, were so ready to take control of me, for this instant of weakness; the darkness threatened me like a sword of Damocles. But then, I felt the light touch of Dr.Gottlieb on my back (which, maybe, was not a completely appropriate way for a man to touch a woman; but it is, indeed, an appropriate way to touch an ill person, who, stripped of any kind of appeal, represents no sin anymore; this, a further proof of how unattainable my wishes are!)

  
Close –oh, so close!- he mumbled in my ear that he believed in me; and I felt rejuvenated, if still a bit overwhelmed.

  
I kept holding his arm as he led me beneath the tree; not a cypress, companion of the eternal slumber, but a golden rain welcomed us.

  
I sat on the grass, my back against the trunk, as he showed me various specimens around us and asked me to identify them; it was by far my most enjoyable day since the bliss of childhood ended, and I wish to make an attempt again, though by the end I was starting to get extremely tired, and leading me back upstairs became a sisiphean task. My dear doctor insisted that we should have called for someone; but I did not wish for anyone to find us in such a state, as it would not benefit his reputation.  
Tonight, when the maid that has received the task of taking care of me during the days in which my uncle is on one of his business journeys brought me supper, I had an appetite, maybe for the first time in years, and enjoyed the meal while engaging in a conversation with her. I believe the fresh air, and the sight of the sky, together with the company of Dr. Gottlieb, have been beneficial for my health.

  
Dear diary,

  
I am incredibly, positively shaken by the events of today.

  
My uncle returned yesterday night, which was expected, since he had sent a message the previous day from the nearest town, where he had stopped in order to get some rest. I wished to surprise him with the incredible improvement of my health, and the revelation that I had been outside: I do not wish to keep this a secret from him, as he is the most open-minded man I know, –who else but a man with such a spirit could name a girl after a renowned scientist?- to the point of often receiving harsh criticism about my upbringing; and I am bound to him by the most sincere affection, as he is the one who has always provided to me, physically and spiritually.

  
Had I always lived with him, maybe I would have never gotten ill; it was when my father’s wife, who owns a very rich property, demanded that I went to live with them, deeming it inappropriate that a young woman such as, in her opinion, I was becoming at the time, lived alone with a man, despite this man being a close relative of mine; and argued that the city life alike was not suiting for, again, a young woman. I had until then lived happily, without the knowledge of what living as a woman meant; my uncle would take pleasure on having me as his company during his journeys, whenever possible, and my health had never been an issue; when he was not home, I lived with his servants, as, at the time, he was quite wealthy and had a mansion that was always full of life; said servants knew his wishes, and let me run freely, never reproaching me for dirtying my clothes or scraping my knees.

  
Living in the countryside with my father, whom I had only known briefly, seemed extremely appealing; but the reality did not match my expectations. I was demanded to wear uncomfortable clothes, and forced into dull rooms, with the company of needles and threads that I despised; often, my father’s wife would organise dances, and gentlemen would flock around me, at least until I challenged them to fence with me, or used cuss words, expressed my wish for a drag from their pipe, or answered in agreement to their appreciation towards the girls. All of these inclinations led me to get scolded, and trapped, and insulted; I felt like a prisoner in my own body, for it was not the body of a man, free to behave as he pleased and reach places I never could; my only consolation, the studies that I still dive into.

  
During these days of sorrow, my physical health began failing, too, and I was soon forced in bed. When it became clear that I could not serve as a heir and be wed, my father elected to send me back to my uncle, which forced him to sell his quarters in the city and acquire a country masion, as the doctor said that I could not survive while breathing the air of the city.

  
Surely, he would have been happiest at seeing how quickly my illness had receeded; when I expressed my belief to Dr. Gottlieb, he agreed with me, and revealed that, during these last two weeks, he had been keeping note of the amount of time I’d been spending outside, the frequency of symptoms, my appetite and my disposition of mind; when he showed me, I realised that under my eyes was nothing less than a scientific study on my astonishing progress! He added that, after receiving my uncle’s approval, he meant to show it to my doctors, suggesting a completely different therapy than the one I am being subjected to now. Sunlight, he said, a more active social life, and no more morphine, fasts and hypnosis.

  
I was sitting in bed after a full afternoon spent outside; he was next to me, on his usual chair. The joy that gripped me at his suggestion was such, that in that moment of pure euphoria I threw my arms around him. He felt extremely tense; and so, I immediately restrained myself and apologised. He forgave me; of course he did, and then he held my hand, and spoke to me about the wonders that I was going to achieve, staying even after the time for our lesson was over, and he had no obligation to stay. His palm gently pressed against mine, he looked at me with such a depth in his eyes as I revealed to him my past, and my fears; and expressed the concern that, no matter if ill or healthy, my female body will always hold me back.

  
He listened attentively, and then, with a passion that I had never thought he could be carried away by, he expressed his belief that no one, not even a woman, is excluded from the pursuit of greatness; and that he sees the potential for it in me. He also disclosed to me that he was discouraged from studying himself, due to a physical condition. When I inquired further, he politely refused to answer; but I suspect that it has to do with his leg.

  
The maid arrived, and was surprised to find him at my bedisde still; but she did not say anything. Dr. Gottlieb left, though I pleaded him to stay by my side; but he believed it was time to head home.

  
Then, on the night after, which was yesterday, after our lesson- that, I must admit, was not really as strenuos as usual; I was overly excited for my uncle’s return, and Dr. Gottlieb seemed in a relaxed mood as well; he allowed me to pick flowers and, carried away by the enthusiasm, I ran through the garden; he scolded me benevolently and, when I felt too tired to sit, he let me lay my head on his lap, and discussed philosophy with me. Our opinions seem so wildly different on the topic, but oh, was it an engaging conversation! Never had I thought a man defining me a “most filthy Epicurean” would feel this tender. We lost track of time; this was the state in which my uncle found us, laying beneath a golden curtain of foliages, his fingers tangled between my hair as he mindlessly braided it with violets and daffodils. Our breath was short and our faces red with laughter; and our book, abandoned on the grass next to me.

  
Dr. Gottlieb was concentrating on the task of confutating my thesis while, at the same time, interwining every lock of my hair with the stem of a flower; and I was concentrating on him, on the feeling of his hands and the sight of how the light played with his features; and so, since my uncle had, apparently, left his chariot at the back, we did not hear his steps until he was too close to us to somehow make ourselves dignified before being seen.

  
I heard him call my name; and I raised my head, a furious blush reaching my cheeks; but he did not care about wheter or not it was appropriate for me and Dr. Gottlieb to spend our time in such a way. Instead, he came running to my side, and, as I stood to greet him, he held me tight, and lifted me off my feet. I laughed, holding onto him; feeling the lightness and wildness of childhood blooming into me again.

  
He was indeed extremely gleeful at finding out about my improvement; and he studied Dr. Gottlieb’s notes with immense attention. Then, he broke down in a cry of joy, and held me again, while profusely thanking my beloved preceptor, who, still brushing stems of grass away from his trousers and attempting to look somehow composed after being found busy in the noble pursuit of hair-braiding, took the compliments with the most endearing display of shyness. My uncle offered to him anything he may ask for; and he, lowering his gentle eyes to the ground and softly shaking his head, replied that the best prize he could ask for was my well-being. My well-being! Unbelievable!

  
My cheek were doomed to burn of a constant fire today, dear diary; for my uncle, in a well-intentioned misunderstanding, inquired about a possible marriage between the two of us. Dr. Gottlieb lost girp of his cane, and stuttered something unintelligible, but somehow let my uncle understand that he could not marry me. Married! Me! Indeed, the proposal seemed ridiculous at first, for the reasons I have already reflected upon; but then, I realised that, having recovered my health, the perspective of a marriage is still not so far away. My only concern is that, though Dr. Gottlieb is indeed a lovable man, he still is a man; and as such, would become my ball and chain soon after the wedding (and not the opposite, as most not-very-gentlemen seem to often believe).

  
If only I could have a guarantee that he would not change after winning over my heart! If only we could live as a married couple, but travel together and be free, not enslaved by such a narrow society! But I cannot have this certainity; and so, it is certainly a positive thing that he elected to leave, drenched in embarrassment, immediately after my uncle had made mention of the wedding, which is a clear sign that he does not love me, and wishes not to marry me.

  
Regardless of frivulous matters such as marriage, I must say I am extremely satisfied. My uncle seems rejuvenated; his eyes are sparkling and, after a short outburst of commotion, his smile has never left his face. He says he is going to send all of the doctors to the hell where they belong (these his exact words!) tomorrow morning, and only keep me under the care of Dr. Gottlieb and the maid; and possibly, demand to one of the closest tenants, one most distinguished war veteran named Stacker Pentecost, if he might send his adopted daughter, who is only a few years younger than me, to keep me company, as Dr. Gottlieb suggested.

  
Dear diary,

  
I apologise for not having written for such a long time; but I have had a terrible relapse. The last time I saw the sun, after another month of steady improvement, I felt a constricting tiredness land on my whole body; and I could not breath, I could not move, I could not even cry; thankfully, my companion, Mrs. Pentecost, was with me, together with Dr. Gottlieb, and the two of them were able to carry me back to my bedroom; there, I finally broke into a desperate cry. I fear I will never recover.

  
Ms. Pentecost, that I have gotten used to call Mako, has been very sweet and patient with me; she has spent some nights with me, attempting to soothe the anguish that was keeping me awake; and Dr. Gottlieb always attempts to reassure me, explaining that healing from such a long, mysterious illness will not be linear, but it will be possible; however, I do not believe it. I have lost all hope; the leaves have started falling, and, when the trees will be naked, I will be six feet under the ground. I am starting to find it extremely troubling to eat, and sleep, and stay awake; my mind drifts off during the lessons and I can feel Dr. Gottlieb’s concerned eyes scrutinising my face for a sign of that strenght, of that spark of life, that he had once been able to awaken in me. Oh, what a torment to see such pain on him and to be aware that I am the cause of it. My secret love’s lips seem more and more appealing a the days pass; and I feel a deep sorrow at the idea that I will never be able to touch them with mine.

  
Despite his heated protests, they have brought me morphine again. If only I could stand up from my bed and reach the cupboard where my emergency dosage is kept, I would inject myself the entirety of it; and drift off to the most peaceful slumber, my lids finally closing for the fatal time; it is a pain to wait for such a sweet release, lonely and wretched as I am.

  
Dear diary,

  
I have received the most painful gift; a cruel jest, a travesty, in the form of a bouquet of violets! Someone is taking pleasure in the mockery of my suffering; and alluding to my proclivities, that should have stayed hidden. I do not know who may have disclosed them; I was certain that nobody outside of my immediate family was aware of them; and even those, only due to a desperate attempt that took place in the countryside and did not end well.

  
But I must be the subject of someone’s ruthless prank; what pleasure do they take, in enhancing the suffering of a dying person? Here, in my deathbed, still I must receive the banter of those around me! I have cried, and cried, and demanded those gracious violets to be thrown away, for they represent to me a symbol of how impossible it will ever be to be loved.

  
Could it be an attempt at romancing me? I think not; I doubt anyone could be admiring me, as I haven’t engaged in social life since I was merely a child; the only people visiting me regularly are physicians, all of which are married and, knowing my desperate state, would never see me fit as a wife anyway; then, my dearest Mako, who, by her own ammission, has a tendency towards ladies; but I am sure her interest falls not on me, but on the fairest daughter of our mayor, Ms.Liwen Shao. She has confessed through giggles that the two of them have sneaked out to the stream together, while she was supposed to tend to me; I and the unaware Dr. Gottlieb have been their accomplishes, as she was ordered not to leave him alone with me.  
Dr.Gottlieb himself is, lastly, another person that I have been interacting with on the regular; but such a good man would realise how morbid it would be to attempt at romance with someone like me! I am convinced he is not requiting my impetuous feelings, and that, if he ever were to, he would simply restrain himself to act on them, guided by his sensibility, due to my illness.

  
I have cried an ocean, dear diary; for, though I find it incredibly hard to admit, I yearn to be loved and cherished, while at the same time realising the unattainability of such a thing. I shall die young and alone; maybe this wicked jester will depose a wreath of violets on my early grave, in a last display of their lack of empathy.

  
Dear diary,

  
As usual, I was wrong! Oh, I was terribly wrong! My heart is beating so fast, and so vigurously, that I am surprised it hasn’t exploded! The happenings of today are seriously unbelievable; and, if someone was ever to find these pages, I plead to them to not deem this a construct of my fantasy; for even in my wildest daydreams I would be uncapable of conceiving such a set of revelations!

  
Dr. Gottlieb came today; lately, we haven’t been studying, for I am always too sedated, either by morphine, or by the sharp pain of living; but, in his immense kindness, he still sits at my bedside every day, and talks to me, or simply stays there in silence as I drift on and off from my dull slumber.  
Today, he noticed my bloodshot eyes, and the bitter curve of my lip; and he inquired about my state of mind. I confessed to him that I had been crying, and recounted about what a sick gift I had received.

  
He seemed burdened by the discovery; the reason of this became soon clear, but, at the moment, I simply believed that he was feeling sorry for me. He suggested that, maybe, I was being too pessimistic, and that it could have really been a romantic gesture, considering the beauty of both my exteriority and interiority. Beauty! Ah, how ridiculous it felt! My body is destroyed; my arms deturpated by the signs of needles, my face gaunt, my bones protruding; I used to be beautiful, when I was in full health, but now my neck has thinned out to the point of seeming barely able to hold my head; my hair is brittle, my collarbones too sharp, my hips, cheeks and bosom lack the plumpness of a woman; I am not beautiful. And my interiority! Oh, my interiority is even more so a set of crumbling ruins; and ruins of a palace that was already not pleasant to the sigh! I have been called insolent and unladylike, selfish and impolite, brash and hysterical, even soon before my illness! And now, these characteristics of mine have been heigthened, and joined by a melancholic nature that doesn’t please anyone, and outbursts of uncomfortable emotionality.

  
It was indeed mere flattery, or so I thought; I wept again, shaken by the thought of how impossible it will forever be for me to be loved by anyone; to be loved by him.  
He held my hand, silent, as I confessed I was going to die soon, and alone; and he flinched at the thought, and pleaded me to keep my strenght, and to keep struggling again what’s consuming me; his grip on my hand got stronger and stronger, like he was attempting to anchor me to this mortal world with the force of his hands alone. I saw his chest rise too quickly, and his eyes squint; he was possibly close to crying as well. How selfish I felt for giving him such a burden! How cruel! But I went on about my own misery, now unhinged, leaning into the touch of his hand, desperately longing for more. When I confessed I had never been kissed, he said he had never been, either, and that his condition would have prevented him from being loved by a woman, too.

  
Through tears, I demanded to know more about his illness; I desired to know about his wounds, too, as he knew so much about mine; and to discover how, if his illness was so terribly debilitating, he was able to conduct a regular life. He insisted on not disclosing it; but added that it was a condition he had been born with, and that would prevent him from ever being loved. Oh, how much desperation I read in his eyes! A desperation similar to mine, so similar, that I felt a terrible pang of hunger for those lips, for those hands that were holding mine. If we were both doomed to never being loved, what use was for restraining my feelings? For keeping them caged, instead of indulging in them?  
And so I spoke; I argued about how I know plenty of women who wouldn’t reject a gentleman such as himself due to having simply a limp leg, if he was accompanied by such a gentle nature; and, as my courage started abandoning me and my voice got shaken, I confessed that, wasn’t I forced to celibacy by this illness, I would have been one.  
Tears started rolling down his cheek; and he tightened the girp against my hand, like he was trying to suppress the impulse of letting it go. And then, to much of my dismay, he admitted on being the sender of the bouquet; and deprecated himself for such an impulsive action, that had brought me pain, and had no possible positive outcome, as he had a secret whose disclosure was necessary, and yet would have prevented me from loving him.

  
I must have gone mad; and it was a blessing. My hands gripped the neckline of his shirt, and pulled him close to me, my lips tending to his, like I was searching for air to breathe; but he did not allow me to do so. He called it a mistake, and affirmed that I was certainly going to regret it; that it was unfair for him to let me. I begged and pleaded him to indulge in this love, if there was any; for there was nothing about him that I could not forgive; and, silly me, I tried to guess. Was he a bastard with no heirloom? I am too; we could have lived together, poor and happy, for the short time my illness was going to conceed us; our love would have been enough. He shook his head. Had he murdered a man? Was he running from the law? Oh, certainly a man such as him couldn’t commit a crime if not for noble reasons! I was sure his story would have convinced me, and brought me on his side again! He laughed, this time, and told me to keep my romantic nature at bay. I begged, and begged, that if he had such a terrible secret, he should confess it to me, so that I could decide; and argued that I was owed this, since I had confessed to him my feelings.

  
He sighed; and admitted that I deserved to be informed. Then, with a pained smile, he asked if the violets reminded me of something.

  
Obviously, my mind ran to Sappho; and to love between women. I told him, and added that it made no sense.

  
He kept smiling painfully, and said that it did. His hands ran to the closure of his waistcoat, and, after he’d unbuttoned all of his garments, I saw a cloth tightly wrapped around his chest, and realised that it had the function of masking a female’s breasts.

  
I reiterate the words that I have started this entry with: I wouldn’t have been capable to construct such an intricate fantasy.

  
Dr. Gottlieb is a woman.

  
The look of sorrow on her face became comical, as I realised what a ridiculous misunderstanding we had been through! I burst out in a laughter of joy, and she looked at me in perplexity. At which, still laughing, I confessed that my proclivities do not differentiate between the two sexes; and, even, that I find more sympathy and longing towards my same sex.

  
Dr. Gottlieb was shaken by the revelation, and clearly didn’t internalise it. So, I took action; with the same passion that had taken me before, I kissed her.  
Oh, what a wonder, that the same heart that so many times I have wished would cease beating at all, could be so shaken and restless at her touch; could scream so loud and demand my attention, and my apologies, for all the neglect and unfairness I subjected it to. I allowed this heart of mine the best apology: I dived in, and disclosed my lips to her kiss. In all sincerity, I thought that such a scalding fire would have burnt me, destroyed me; and that this frail body would have simply given out, crumbling to pieces for such an overwhelming amount of pleasure; but such a thing did not happen.

  
I felt like possessed by an intense thirst, and suffocation; and she was water, and she was air, that I was never satisfied enough with; as every kiss ended, another one, more voracious, began; I clasped the unbuttoned hems of her shirt, and pulled her over me, breathless; I clinged to her, her lips the sole nourishment my body and soul alike needed; she answered enthusiastically, kissing life back into me, but her hands were gentle, and tender, and showed hesitation when I seemed too eager. She mumbled words of worry for my health; and I pleaded her, unless her desire was not as consuming as mine, to proceed. Her eyes wet with slow, warm tears, she kissed me again.

  
Never would I have thought that this bed, supposed to become my shroud, would have been the theatre of something so wildly different! I cannot go into details; someone could find these pages! And, to be fair, I still blush at the thought of what happened; writing it down, using words, would simply be impossible to me right now. But such unspeakable acts were so delighting; a tender merging of breath and soul, anatomycal and metaphysical, so earthly in the way we spoke to each other and mercilessly giggled at the other’s dismayed pleasure, and so heavenly in the sensation that shook my every nerve.

  
We lay down in each other’s arms for a long time after; her kisses blessing my skin, her hands tangled through my hair; and, head falling on her chest, I wept; I wept for the overwhelming beauty of love, so unknown to me until that very moment, and yet so easily to define by the look in her eyes; I wept for how hope was starting to bloom inside my heart, although I was fully aware of the vanity of it; and she did not answer through words, but simply wrapped me in her arms tighter and, leaning her chin atop of my head, let out silent streams of tears as well.

  
I kissed her again, with desperation; and she answered with a similar feeling, gripping my hands tight, nails digging into the back of them; I could taste the salt of the tears, and reminisce the immensity of the sea, which I had seen once, and that had since seduced my mind to exotic daydreams. Weakly, I suggested to her that we should elope; and she hummed, tears still streaming down from her shiny eyes, tracing the curve of my back with her gentle hand. Then, slowly, her voice slurring slightly, like that of a drunken mariner, she suggested an alternative proposal; that is, a legitimate marriage.

  
I laughed out, and stroked back her hair; oh, how silly such a proposal seemed! No matter what the village perceives her as; no matter her name, or the absolute, ruthless precision which she must have applied in burning every bridge that could have led anyone on a truthful road: a marriage requires a birth certificate. How naïve my newfound companion seemed to me in such an instance! Though, it was nothing but a brief instance; for her eyes darkened, filled with something that I had rarely seen; a glimmering night that sent a shiver of fear, and intriguement, down my spine. She dryly asked if she had my trust.

  
Forever, I said. In every possible instance.

  
Then, she reiterated her marriage proposal; and added that, if I was in need of an incentive, she could add to the gift of her person that of a conspicuous sum of money. I laughed, for I needed no incentives; and softly whispered to her that our hearts being tied together for eternity would have been the best gift I could ask for. As her lips pressed against mine yet another time, the hunger that is typical of lovers turned tender by the prospect of a shared future, by the responsibility brought along with the delicate act of holding someone’s heart in one’s hands forever, tears resurfaced again in my eyes.

  
My dear sighed, gently stroking my pale cheek, the warmth of her breath still lingering on my skin; and, repeating my name like the most blasphemous prayer, demanded to know what had prompted it.

  
I shared my worry for the life that I was going to subject her to, guilty my illiness; and she sighed again, and repeated my name, rolled every letter in her mouth like she wanted to savor it, and pleaded me to understand that she would have preferred infinitely to spend a couple of years with me, than an entire lifetime with anyone else; and that, regardless of that, she was going to make sure that the obviously ever-present troubling days would have been faced by me with her absolute support, and that her hand would have held mine and led me through every challenge, every hint of anguish, every hopeless pit.

  
Still weeping, I nodded, and hid my face in the crook of her neck, stealing a peck from her graceful collarbone. I ought to go, she said eventually, and my heart died a little bit; it agonised painfully as I found every excuse to cling to her hands, caress her skin, press my lips on her face, while she got dressed; and then, it expired, but it was such a sweet death, for it was no eternal slumber, but simply a temporary one; and the delightful ache that her departure left anticipated to me the pleasure of rebirth, that was certainly going to occur as soon as I would see her again.

Dear diary,

  
I would not have believed in the events of last night, and I certainly would have dismissed them as an extremely vivid and inappropriate fantasy that had occurred to me during a dazed, half-dreaming state, and that I would admittedly have indulged in reminiscing quite often, had I not found the proof that such a thing had, indeed, occurred: my dearest Dr. Gottlieb, the moon and stars shining on the darkest night of my life, my newfound religion, has left me a letter.

  
Our maid delivered it to me first thing this morning, as the roundsman had told her that my good doctor had told him that it was a matter of maximum urgency, and a very confidential one. Which, of course, meant that the letter had been open and read; but thankfully, my dear friend had been quite discreet and didn’t include any details, although the meaning of her words was not mysterious in any way.

  
Newton dearest,

  
I apologise for not being able to greet you properly; but over the night after our last encounter, I could not sleep, vexed by the thought of what was going to be necessary for me to do in order to achieve your hand; and my yearning was such, that I could not do otherwise but arrange my departure for the next morning.  
I am unable to let you know the specifics of my journey, for reasons that, just as those, I would prefer expressing to you in person- hopefully, when we move to our shared quarters, as soon as time and space can allow. I am leaving you these few lines as a reassuration on the fact that I do not wish for our separation to be permanent; you might think that I have played with your heart, and that, after obtaining what I wanted, I decided to abandon you; but, on the contrary, even as I write, not having left yet, I already feel the painful lack of our presence.  
Fear not, my love; for I will return to the sweet embrace of your arms and, if you allow me such luck, never leave it.

  
Yours forever,  
Dr. Hermann Gottlieb.

  
Oh, what a yearning these words have filled with me! How painful reassureance can be, if it is not believed! Will my love return? Are her words honest? Or will that sweet, burning, seeming endless embrace between the two of us be the only memory that is left to me? Merely a memory?

My fantasy is wild, and doesn’t hesitate over the darkest of thoughts, when it is not brutally dragged back into the darkness by that decaying chasm inside my mind, that I have learnt to call my illness; instead, it indulges in such different thoughts. I see a boat pier, and the bright blue of the tissue at her collar more intense that the seas we are about to cruise; I see her arms warming me up during the journey, her gentle hands wiping away the suffered sweat from my forehead during my most painful days; I see us settling close to the woods, where that sweet melody will keep calling us, and I will finally be able to answer it, barefoot and wild, my legs made strong enough to walk through the paths thanks to her presence; or maybe, near the sea, in the littlest cabin, just big enough to hold our love- just big enough to hold the infinite, between four walls crusted with salt, close enough to our way out, to our runaway, to our endless journeys together; for it is sweet to wander, if you have the certainty of a fixed point.

  
And how I wish for such certainity! I cried, dear diary; wetted the words she marked with her beautiful hands with my tears, and I am sure, as someone who has a great knowledge in the realm of tears, that this time, they tasted sweeter; and that the breathlessness in my chest, that bursting bubble, was something different, something warmer; fear, and hope, going hand in hand, as companions, as death and love, the former howering on my bed stand, the latter lingering in the sheets, together with her scent.  
I wish to see her eyes opening every time I wake, for the rest of my life; and I wish to feel her hands cradling me gently as soon as I regain consciousness; and I wish to sit at the breakfast table with her, watching her eat, and I wish to kiss every tear she will shed, every smile she will brighten my world with.

  
I cannot help but fear for the dangers of her journey; and for the unknown paths she’s taking, paths that, hopefully, will bring her back to me; and oh, how I long for the moment she will be by my side again, and hold me tight, and whisper to me that we’re safe. No wait has ever been so long.

  
Dear diary,

  
This entrance is a goodbye; not for I will cease writing- I never will- but for your pages are starting to lack, and it seems just rightful to start another chapter in the most literal sense as well.

  
But no goodbye could be sweeter than this; no, never, and I should envy my fields, and my woods, and my dear uncle, were I not getting something sweeter.

  
My love came back.

  
She was tired, her cheek flushed, her hands slightly shaky; and her leg seemed harder to carry than it usualy is; but she came back.

  
I heard the sound of a chariot stopping in front of our house; and then, a decise knock at the door, followed by the squeal of one of our servants; I stood from my place at the dinner table, and, nevermind the alarmed expression in my uncle’s eyes, I was not fearing anything; I stood, my eyes glistening, my limbs shaking; I stood, mouthing her name, not daring to pronounce it out loud; I stood, and I waited; and she came.

  
The door of our dining room was thrown open; robes flying between her, quick pained steps, the servant following her, trying to precede her in order to introduce her properly, were all I could see; then, a sweet taste in my mouth, and I leaped towards her.

  
She opened her arms, radiant, beautiful as I had never seen her, no matter the increased gauntness of her cheekbones and her smell- the smell of a traveller, of sweat, but also something else; something that, I would have learned, was blood.

  
We nearly fell, her pained leg unable to hold me; and so I let her lean against me, and I muttered her name, my lips on her neck, her hands clasping me tighter. “You came back.”

  
It took a quite discreet cough from my uncle to separate us. He, rightfully, asked us for explanation; and my Hermann, my love, my sunshine, trembling from tiredness and emotion, let go of me, but kept my hand held tight between hers; and, raising her chin, her cheeks turning bright pink, faced my uncle. “I wish to ask for Newton’s hand in marriage.”

My uncle seemed slightly taken aback; then, he started laughing. “Why, of course I should have anticipated it.” He kept laughing, as he stood and made his way towards us; then, he gripped her shoulder, familiarly, strongly, like a father; then, he turned to me, and shook his head. “You’re the most terrible child I might ever have the pleasure of having as my niece.” I laughed, too, and jumped into his arms; he held me tight, and whispered to me, inaudible, as men that are hardened by life do, that he loves me.

My Hermann- my husband? My wife? I suppose “My love” is the best definition, as it cannot create confusion- now owns an estate in the nearest county, to which we have moved; clearly, such a possession is a great incentive for my uncle, as I am, as far as anyone knows, marrying a quite rich man; how she inherited it this fast, and managed to produce a valid birth certificate that states her sex as male and could get us to marry, is something that she told me on the night before the wedding, when I saw the coppery stain on her undershirt; and her story was long, and painful, and bloodstains were much more common than one would expect. Her voice broke while she told it; and I held her, and kissed her tears, as I promised I would have done; and I whispered in her ear how much I could still love her, and how much I was going to love her, forever.

  
This is the end, dear diary, but it is also the beginning; for my life begins now. Sadly, my illness may become weaker in her presence, but it won’t disappear; and we will face it together, for the rest of our days, two outcasts building a home in their dark corner.


End file.
